


Don't Call It Love Cause We Don't Fight

by kayceeagitate



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayceeagitate/pseuds/kayceeagitate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think I left my copy of the Bus update ideas in your office during our last meeting. Can you check for me?” May requests out of the blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Call It Love Cause We Don't Fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greggles_Lestrade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greggles_Lestrade/gifts).



> Title from "Go Go Go" by Panic is Perfect. This is for my dearest Greggles_Lestrade because he constantly puts up with my inability to have any energy to write when we're awake the same time, among roughly eight billion other things.

“I think I left my copy of the Bus update ideas in your office during our last meeting. Can you check for me?” May requests out of the blue. They’re in the middle of the 16 hour flight from Moscow to Cape Town and Coulson had only stopped by to see if May needed anything, like a break, not reading material. He raises an eyebrow at her. She raises one back. He sighs. “Fine. I’ll go check for you.” She gives him her little half smile, even less of one than Natasha’s.

 

Coulson is not expecting his office to be occupied when he gets there since his team is very aware that his office is off limits when not accompanied. Even Skye more or less respects this rule. He’s certainly not expecting the occupant to be Clint Barton. Hawkeye isn’t even supposed to know that Coulson is alive (as much as that has pained Coulson).

 

Even so, Coulson thinks he does a very admirable job of hiding his shock when he pushes open the door and reveals Clint leaning back in the chair behind the desk, booted feet propped on the wooden surface of the desk, casually twirling an arrow (one of the regular ones, thank Christ) between two fingers.

 

Clint is fairly casually dressed in sturdy faded jeans and a worn t-shirt, sleeves actually intact on it. He’s still wearing his uniform combat boots though and Coulson notes his tac jacket thrown over a duffel bag on the floor, bow case and quiver next to it. Post-mission then but enough time since that he’s had a chance to change out of his tactical gear. Coulson closes the door behind himself and crosses his arms, looking at Clint expectantly.

 

The other man grins slow and broad (not his real smile, not by a long shot, it doesn’t reach his too sad eyes) and says, “Hey, babe. Long time no see.” He stops the rotations of the arrow in his fingers and flicks his wrist, throwing it in a perfect arc through the air back into the quiver.

 

“Don’t throw arrows in my office,” Coulson responds flatly. He hasn’t moved from his position by the door, unable to give into his desire to grab Clint up from the chair and pin him to the wall, unsure if he can even manage it quite right anymore. “How did you get on board, Barton? I know you weren’t here when we took off.”

 

Clint lowers his feet from the desktop to sit normally, brushing dirt from the polished wood. “Agent May helped,” he answers but doesn’t elaborate. Coulson is even more curious for the details after that answer, considering the historically prickly relationship between the agents, but he has the distinct feeling that he isn’t going to get any details.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re _alive_?” Clint asks suddenly, quietly, fiercely.

 

“Level 8, need to know only,” Coulson answers automatically. It sounds flimsy and hollow to his own ears. He’s managed to sound blandly pleasant about so many things in his career. It’s a tone he excels at, has used it as a steamroller for SHIELD on Tony Stark, on Asgardian demi-gods, for goodness sake. Except here, in private with this man, he can’t pull off the bluff. He slumps, uncrosses his arms to scrub a hand over his face.

Clint is in front of him in a second, concerned even as he asks, brokenly, “You didn’t think I needed to know? Didn’t _trust_ me to know?” Despite his very obvious hurt, he still reaches out, places bow-string calloused fingers on Coulson’s cheek.

 

“Fury didn’t… doesn’t… trust anyone to know, outside of my team,” Coulson answers. He looks at the floor, unable to face Clint’s eyes. “Though it appears that secret has leaked somehow.”

 

“Everything leaks eventually from the rusty bucket,” Clint responds, using their private nickname for the Triskelion. His voice is careful, gentle, as if his words might somehow shatter the other man. “Phil, look at me,” he requests. It’s framed as a demand but it sounds closer to begging and Coulson finds himself powerless to resist.

 

Clint’s eyes are still too sad, shaded with a cloud of disbelief, when Coulson brings his own up to meet them. They are both still for the space of a breath, caught by sudden intimacy in their closeness, in their eye contact.

 

And then.

 

Lips crash together before either of them really register that they’re moving. Their kisses are wet and needy, a dialogue of loss and reunion. The arousal flares hot and bright and sudden. Which, Clint manages to think a little hysterically, is not at all bad for a couple of middle aged guys. Hands reach to un-do flies and pull out desperately hard cocks.

 

They ended up mirrors of each other with one hand gripping the back of the other’s neck and the other hand curled around the other’s cock, foreheads pressed together and breathing each other’s air, past the point of functional kissing for the moment, with Coulson pressed back against the wall of his office.

 

The elapsed time before they both shatter apart into orgasm isn’t anything really to brag about but then neither of them is likely to brag about this anyway, the moment too intimate and raw. Most of the mess ends up on Clint because of course it does. Coulson may struggle with popping the clip from a handgun still but this, a quickie with Clint while keeping his suit pristine, his body seems to remember just fine.

 

Clint glares half-heartedly at the come splattered on his shirt. “Really, Phil? Did you have to do that? This was my only change of clothes.” He attempts to sound annoyed but is very aware he doesn’t at all. Coulson looks at him waiting for an explanation as to why exactly he only has one change of clothes. Clint, for unknown reasons, blushes under the weight of that look. “Was supposed to hop a Quinjet back to the States asap after my mission debrief but then I got intel about your flying fortress crossing paths with where I was so here I am.”

 

Coulson gets a strange look on his face (ok not strange, very familiar to Clint, a mix of pride and exasperation) and is silent as he tucks them both back into their pants and locates a tissue to wipe the worst of the mess off Clint’s shirt before it dries and stains too badly. He continues not saying anything as he settles himself into his chair behind the desk, resting his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers. Clint remain motionless, unsure.

 

“Barton, report,” Coulson barks and yeah, ok, Clint knows what this is now. Coulson seems a little surprised at himself, one more thing that ought to be as unfamiliar as every other familiar thing has turned out to be in his strange second life and yet isn’t because he’s in this room with Clint and nothing with Clint has ever felt unfamiliar, even when they were barely more than strangers.

 

Clint’s spine straightens as he snaps to attention, long disused Army training coming back to him just as it always does when he and Phil do this. “Sir?” It comes out a question, just like it shouldn’t.

 

“You are going to tell me, Agent Barton, just how exactly you came to be on the Bus. And so help me, if it involved a helicarrier to bogey drop, there is going to be hell to pay.” Coulson’s voice is tight, losing the cool commanding officer tone and dropping the game too quickly.

 

Clint drops the game as well, arms crossing and jaw mulish. “Phil, what the hell? I’m trained on it and I used a chute! I’m not Cap and I’m not an idiot!”

 

Coulson stands, looming over his desk, fingers going white in places from how hard he’s pressing his hands against the wood. “And how many injuries did you sustain on this mission? How many unnecessary risks did you take? I saw your medical report from the New York incident. Your file hasn’t exactly been a picture of health on missions since then!”

 

The laugh that leaves Clint is harsh, bitter, sounding like it’s been punched out of him. “You’re one to fucking talk about unnecessary risks. Going toe to toe with an Asgardian prick and ending up stabbed through the heart ringing any bells? Of course, I heard there was some memory loss from Tahiti so maybe it isn’t. And Tahiti is a whole other discussion on unnecessary risk but since we’re already arguing why not make it a real doozy?”

 

Coulson is vaulting over the desk and pushing Clint into the wall before either of them really processes but when Clint does all he can really think is that Phil must have started back into combat training to pull off that move. “Not bad for an old man,” Clint says a little breathlessly because he’s frequently physically incapable of not being an idiot. It earn him an eye roll and a deep kiss.

 

“We gonna actually talk or just keep fucking against the wall?” Clint asks softly when they break apart eventually.

 

Coulson has brought his hands up to cradle Clint’s face, their foreheads pressed together again. “Let’s go to my bunk,” he suggests. “I’d say we can do both at the same time but I know if I don’t gag you when I fuck you, you’ll scream the whole plane down.”

 

“You’re not wrong.” Clint presses a quick kiss to the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Missed you so fucking much.” His voice cracks but he can’t cry, he won’t cry, hasn’t cried in so long about anything but he’s pretty sure it’s going to happen at some point today. He doesn’t mention that Phil’s eyes are looking pretty wet too. “We have at least 7 hours left until Cape Town. I think we can manage both in that time without doubling up activities.” He gives Coulson’s hip a little swat, trying to convince himself this isn’t some sort of dream.

  
The answering tweak to his ear proves it.


End file.
